


Prophetic

by davidacorn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christianity, other characters are mentioned but not active
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15774510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davidacorn/pseuds/davidacorn
Summary: Dean Winchester laid in his bed, counting sheep equivalent to his days until he descended into Hell. Before season 3 episode 13, but no specific date, just before he enters the domain.





	Prophetic

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I haven't wrote Supernatural fanfic in a long, long time. I originally wrote this to be a roleplay starter even though I had nobody to roleplay with but I ended up just finishing it. I can't promise it makes sense with what happens in the show because I'm only rewatching right now and I'm mid season 3, and I haven't actually watched the show since 2014. Christianity mention: Thessalonians 13-14.

Another sleepless night that Dean laid in agonizing sorrow for the life that was to behold of him. His life, from its start- liking G.I. Joes and playing with his little brother Sammy, to his salad days of shooting demonic nightcrawlers and burning Bible pages for fun and for joints, to its end- which was less than 100 days from now. It would end with him in a bar, waiting on Death to walk in, tell him the time, and parade his soul into Hell. To leave his life behind willingly was something Dean always imagined a martyr would do- but he knew martyrs don't go to Hell. Dean was not a _martyr_ , but in fact, a dumbass.

  
He laid with his arm draped across his face as his grassy green eyes started to dew. Hell wasn't where he wanted to go- Heaven was a place that, at the very least, you could look over and protect those you love. He could hold his mother once more, many more times, forever; he could look over Sammy as he hunted monsters, or travelled back to Stanford, or whatever his heart desired to do. He could do anything with his mortality without lugging Dean around like a suitcase. Dean didn't know what Hell was, but he knew it was no walk in the park. There was no watching his family and Lisa- the options were burning mixed with torture for all eternity.

  
_No Sammy,_ he mumbled softly as he wept.  
What could a man do with 100 days left to spare of his life? To go back to the days where hunting wasn't his only focus in life were a pipe dream. Especially due to the fact that there was not a day in his life where he could just relax and watch anything from _Barney_ to _Doctor Sexy_ \- not even his kid years gave him such luxury. All Dean was capable of was slay ghouls and ghosts and drinking cold whiskey. His life wasn't much more other than caring too much about people, holding his emotions in, and listening to Led Zeppelin cassettes. Sometimes a hot chick was tossed his way, but that was a penny heads-up.

  
The only thing consistent about his life, his whole life, was the fact that every hotel he slept in had a Bible in the drawer. He's slept through every night and woke up, minus the times Gabriel fucked him in the ass.

Upon divine intervention, the blond turned to look for the book, and there was none to be found. He sighed and laid back down as he noticed Sam had an open book on his nightstand opposite his bed.

  
_Oh yeah_ , Dean thought, _little Sam's a devotee._ He chuckled as he picked up the book and skimmed the page, until his eyes laid on scripture that moved.

  
**13** Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. **14** For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.

  
As Dean read that, his chest felt warm but broken, like a shotglass of Tennessee honey was chucked at a wall. The Hellbound man sat on his bed with his face in his hands and spoke softly, as he figured the only person that needed to hear already knew what merry-go round was dancing around his head.

  
_Dear God,_  
_You know me, and you know what I've done. You know that I haven't always done good, but I have never acted as if I have a cursed tongue. I do not do things to encourage the wicked, but to kick their toxic asses to eternity. I kill, but with good intentions. I know I will be in Hell in a few months with no way to stop it. So please, God, Jesus, Moses, Muhammad, Mom, whatever- if there is hope for me, please send a prophet to cleanse my soul and save me._  
_Uh, thanks, God. I might see ya around someday._

  
And with that, the skeptic laid back down and went to sleep. It was the best damn sleep he's ever had; for the first time in a solid year, he slept soundly.


End file.
